On Being Slushied
by LogicBomb.32
Summary: Being slushied is like having an epiphany, you realize a few things, figure out a few more and something just hit you in the face. Like red #40. But it's in the aftermath of the moment when the true power of the slushie is discovered.


**Title: On Being Slushied **

**Author: Logicbomb.32 **

**Ships: Santana-Brittany **

**Summary: Being slushied is like having an epiphany, you realize a few things, figure out a few more and something just hit you in the face. Like red #40. But it's in the aftermath of the moment when the true power of the slushie is discovered. **

**Authors Note: Just something I wrote up while I was bored. There is no specific slushie-ing moment that this is based off of, so pick one or make up one as you read this. Enjoy!**

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><p>The first thing you realize when you're in the process of being slushied, and by process I mean as your face drops and the giant wave of frozen red #40 comes towards you, is that life's a bitch.<p>

Next, after the not so surprising realization that someone inside WMHS dislikes you enough to drench you in sticky, sweet, and impossibly to get out of whatever you're wearing, slushie, is that it's cold. Cold as in someone just threw the Arctic Ocean on your face.

It is, as best put, like having you're face hit by an iceberg. Every part of you goes numb, and even as you try to form some sort of angry word it always turns out to be a splutter, a shriek or a whimper. You feel every path that Red #40 traces down you, slipping beneath your clothes and dripping down your neck and back and face. The involuntary shivers make you look like you're having some sort of weird epileptic, allergic reaction.

And then there's the pain.

Yes, pain.

Because you're freezing cold, not really able to speak coherently say anything and on top of all that opening your eyes is the equivalent to pouring molten lava on your iris and dancing on top of Mt. Doom. So unless you feel like looking overly intoxicated with irritated red eyes, you're blind.

Blind, cold and a mumbling idiot you're left standing in the middle of the hallway surrounded by people who are either laughing or cheering. And generally not for you but because they escaped the slushing, the cheering is more of a exhalation of relief.

It's the gentle hand, fingertips fluttering on the outside of your wrist as someone, starts to pull you away. But it's as your legs begin to know what they're supposed to do that the rest of your life seems to catch up. Anger, embarrassment and a whole lot of everything else rushes through you and suddenly you really wish you could see.

Not that it matters, you can hear the deep, guffawing laughter of the dumbass jock who tossed the slushie at you. You don't need to be able to see his hulking frame to spit words at him, although you do wish you could see the way they take a step back, glancing at each other at the unexpected rebuke.

"The fuck is your problem, you think tossing frozen chemicals in someone's face is funny."

It's as you're shouting that you feel the fingers curl around your wrist, holding on as you get wound up, the sounds of slushie slipping to the floor punctuating your sentences "You better watch your fucking back, just because you're a football player doesn't mean I wont shove your nuts down your throat."

Your legs are moving again, suddenly remembering how to work and you're half walking, half being dragged away. At this point you're shaking now, either from the ice water soaking through your shirt and into your skin or your anger, but either way you know you're being dragged to a bathroom, or the locker room.

It's not a question of who either, you knew who it was before her fingers even grasped your wrist. It is some sort of sixth, Brittany related, sense and if she wasn't pulling you away from the noise and the crowd you probably wouldn't be anywhere near this calm.

Your eyes are watering uncontrollably as you hear the door to wherever you are lock, and you know that you two are alone "Where's the sink?" you choke out, surprised at the amount of emotion in your voice "Where's the fucking sink." You hissed, cracking your eyes open and immediately regretting it.

"Keep 'em closed." Brittany said, the first words she's spoken since you got slushied and you comply, the tears now mixing with the Red #40.

"It hurts." You hiss, not letting your voice drop into that whine, but this is Brittany and even as you hear her turn on the tap, you can't help but wonder how you got so lucky.

"I know." She says, gently swiping her finger across your face "I know it does, but just for a little bit longer okay?"

You nod, raising a hand to wipe away the stray tears but Brittany stops you, pulling you into her, regardless of the sticky, emotional disaster you've become. At first you resist, desperate not to transfer the mess to her, but she doesn't let you go and the fight leaves you.

You collapse into her arms, shoulders shaking "I-they-why" you try to force out, but she stops you with a kiss.

Sweet and gentle, none of the dominance you see in the bedroom and the kiss tastes faintly of cherry, a bittersweet reminder of the moments before "We need to get this shirt off." She mumbles, hands scrabbling at the hem and if it wasn't for the ice that slides down your back, the moment would be full of sexual tension.

Instead you step back, raising your arms and wiggling out of the now ruined shirt, shivering in the over air conditioned bathroom and knowing, without seeing, the goose bumps. You wrap your arms around yourself, both an attempt to keep warm and, unconsciously, protecting yourself, the vulnerability of the moment shaking you to your core.

"C'mere." She says softly, not reaching out and pulling you to her like you know she wants.

Instead she's letting you get you back, pull yourself together and put up some of the pieces that fell with frozen Red #40 to the floor. Waiting, because she's Brittany, because she knows you and because she loves you. So you walk forward, gingerly and with one hand outstretched until she grabs it, placing her other hand on the small of your back and guiding you to the sink.

You hear movement, the pulling out of paper towels, running them under the lukewarm water "Keep your eyes closed." She says gently as she moves around, finally bringing the damp towel to your face

You flinch slightly at the initial contact, relaxing back into the hand placed strategically on your back "It's okay." She whispers, her voice low and calming.

And on some level you know you're being dumb and overreacting but right now, now the emotions feel real. And Brittany doesn't judge you as she does her best to get the slushie away "You can open your eyes." She says and at first you're not sure if you want to.

You open your eyes, lids fluttering open as you brace yourself to face the damage. And it's almost as bad as you imagined. The last dregs of slushie are melting into your matted down hair, your bare skin is tinted red and her arm, even more pale against the unnatural color you're now sporting, now wrapped around your shoulders "See" she whispers "It's just slushie."

But it's not just slushie. It's because she's Brittany that you can accept her seeing it like that. Because she's perfect and simple and everything that you're not (and then some) but right now it's not just slushie. Right now this is a statement of just how far you've fallen, how you are still a bitch, but not the HBIC and strangely enough, you're not as upset as you thought you would be.

You had pictured searing anger, sworn statements of revenge and curses of sharp looks and pointed glares for those responsible. They're there, the anger, the hatred, but not as much as you would expect. You're more focused on Brittany, the breath on your neck and the way she's now pulling you into her. Pulling you into her because she sees you trying to rationalize what happened, try to ignore the fact that you're officially one of _them. _One of the losers who gets slushied by jocks and weird looks in the hallways.

She's trying to protect you from yourself because she knows how you'll pull away. How you'll shut out the world in an attempt to piece back together the façade of yourself until the mask is read. You'll slip the mask back in place and she's frown, bit her lip and debate about calling you out on it. Instead she would grab your pink with her, her humming resonating softly in her throat as her head rests against your shoulder. Reminding you, you're never alone.

But not today.

Today there is no fixing of the wall, no replacement of the mask. You're broken down, so weary of fighting it that if only for a moment you will be you. And you're vulnerable and scared and Brittany knows all of this, so the blond decides to protect you

From the world.

From yourself.

And you let her, shirtless, shaking and slushied, the walls stay down and Brittany smiles, her kissing you and you kissing her, the taste of cherry slushie fading away as the rest of the slips with it.

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><p><em>Fin. <em>

_Logicbomb.32_


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